


Pants

by MrsHamill



Series: PWPs [5]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Crack, First Time, M/M, PWP, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-02-20
Updated: 2003-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-21 07:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6043786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsHamill/pseuds/MrsHamill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obi-Wan has lost his pants. Qui-Gon has lost his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pants

**Author's Note:**

> Ruth's fault. All of it. And I was fucking _busy_ , goddammit!! Humph. It made me write it even before I could pack. Thank you, Maj for the beta. No, Fox hasn't seen it. I was too embarrassed!! :-D

It was a weary Qui-Gon Jinn who walked into the apartment he shared with his luscious -- er, his underage -- no, that's not right either, for Obi-Wan Kenobi had just turned a rather delightful nineteen, to his master's utter dismay and lustful yearning -- no, _not_ lustful yearning, one simply didn't do that to one's ... one's ... one's ... aw, shit. Obviously, Qui-Gon was having a problem -- a lot of problems, actually -- with his feelings over his incredibly gorgeous and extremely messy padawan, Obi-Wan Kenobi.  
  
Messy?  
  
The apartment looked like a bomb had hit it. There was clothing strewn all over the place ... tunics and robes were heaped on and falling off the dining table. Boots were lined up -- rather haphazardly -- under and around the desk. Belts, sashes and stolas were arrayed across the back of the couch, and there was a rather disturbing heap of undergarments on one of the chairs and nearby cocktail table -- those pale green silk boxers were _not_ Qui-Gon's and the idea of his -- no, no, _not_ his! -- of Obi-Wan in them ... Well. Qui-Gon's fairly recent obsession with his Padawan was still a secret -- he most devoutly hoped -- and the idea of him in those boxers (and nothing else) didn't do much for Qui-Gon's sense of propriety or his sanity.  
  
Wrenching his gaze away from that particular pile, Qui-Gon cleared his throat and called out, "Padawan?"  
  
"Goddammit," he heard muttered from his padawan's room, and before he could reprimand said padawan, he was coming out in to the main room.  
  
Undressed.  
  
No, that wasn't quite right either ... he was dressed, from the middle of his taut, lovely, tight -- er, from the upper-middle of his thighs, he was dressed perfectly. He just had no ...  
  
"Padawan? Where are your pants?" Qui-Gon asked, proud that his voice didn't waver one bit.  
  
"That's what _I'd_ like to know," Obi-Wan replied, almost growling, his almost elfin face twisted into a really rather fetching frown. "I can't find them. I've searched _everywhere_ , Maaastehr, and I can't find them."  
  
Averting his gaze rather hastily as his padawan bent over and began rooting through the tunic pile, Qui-Gon said, "Have you checked the laundry, padawan?"  
  
"This _is_ the laundry, Maaastehr." Oh gods, if he said that one more time ... "We've gotten all the laundry back just this afternoon, since I was assuming the Council would be giving us another mission. I've put away all your things, and started to put away my things, and ... and ..."  
  
"No pants?" Qui-Gon asked, trying to be solicitous, and really, _really_ trying to keep from looking at Obi-Wan from the waist down.  
  
"No pants," Obi-Wan confirmed, collapsing on the sofa. Qui-Gon rapidly strode to the kitchen to brew some trouble -- some _tea_ , to brew some tea. Anything to get him away from the common room. "I've commed the laundry, and no one was there, so I left a message. What could have happened? We can hardly go on a mission -- or even leave our quarters -- like this, Maaastehr," Obi-Wan continued.  
  
Qui-Gon turned and was about to say something -- but whatever he was going to say went out the window. Obi-Wan was on his knees leaning over the back of the sofa, presenting Qui-Gon with a most pitiful face, but besides that, the back of his tunic was draped on either side of ...  
  
Another pair of green silk boxers.  
  
Which outlined his very well-built and tight ass _perfectly_.  
  
Qui-Gon choked.  
  
Instantly, his solicitous padawan was off the sofa and at his side, patting his back gently. "Are you all right, Maaastehr?" he purred ... no, he asked. Asked, dammit!  
  
"Fine," Qui-Gon said in a strained voice. "I'm fine. I'm sure your pants are somewhere, padawan," he added, then with a sudden idea, said, "Did you check my laundry? Perhaps they were accidentally bundled in with mine."  
  
His face lighting up, Obi-Wan said, "What a wonderful idea, Maaastehr! Let me go check."  
  
"Good. You do that," Qui-Gon muttered, resolutely _not_ watching that green-silk-clad butt sway away from him into his bedroom.  
  
The tea making process managed to calm Qui-Gon sufficiently that he was able to actually remove his robe and hang it up, which he did, while carrying his cup of tea into the common area. When he turned away from the coat tree, however, he found he was suddenly face to -- er -- face with those damn green boxers, which were heaped on his favorite chair. "Obi-Wan!"  
  
"Maaastehr, they're not in here either," Obi-Wan said, coming out of his maaaaas-- his master's bedroom with his arms heaped full of tunics. "In fact ...I can't seem to find any of _your_ pants either ..."  
  
"What?" Qui-Gon put his tea on a corner of the table in passing as he hurried into his bedroom. There were tunics and stolas spilling over the small chair in the corner, and his armoire doors were wide open, held that way by various tunics, more stolas, belts and undershirts --  
  
But no pants.  
  
"They must be here," Qui-Gon muttered, searching through his drawers and hangers.  
  
"I've looked, Maaastehr," Obi-Wan said, collapsing artfully on Qui-Gon's bed and slumping in defeat -- simultaneously, something which Qui-Gon noticed. Without noticing. Sort of. "I could have _sworn_ I saw some pants when I put them away earlier tonight ..."  
  
Qui-Gon turned toward Obi-Wan, then abruptly turned away. Obi-Wan's tunic had hiked up his legs and those damn green silk boxers were peeking out again. He began sorting through the tunics on the doors of the armoire, hanging them up as he did so. "You don't need to put away my clean laundry, padawan," he said gruffly. "That's not exactly in the job description." Although the idea of Obi-Wan pawing through -- fondling -- _folding_ Qui-Gon's underwear was one that he rather liked ...  
  
"Oh, but Maaastehr," Obi-Wan said, with absolutely the most _adorable_ little pout in his voice, "I enjoy doing things for you. I like helping you out. In all ways. Maaastehr."  
  
Qui-Gon did a credible double-take at the double-entendre in that. Obi-Wan was fondling -- was _fingering,_ dammit! -- the end of his stola and his eyes were downcast. He glanced up briefly through criminally long lashes then went back to staring at his fingers. Qui-Gon blinked -- surely his padawan was not offering -- couldn't be saying that he -- no. Not possible. It was an innocent thing to say, and it didn't mean that Qui-Gon should seduce -- romance -- oh, hell -- _pounce_ his nineteen year old padawan and fuck him into next week. So to speak.  
  
His gorgeous nineteen year old padawan.  
  
His gorgeous, sexy and almost irresistible nineteen year old padawan.  
  
With a nearly inaudible groan, Qui-Gon turned away from the lovely vision on his bed -- _on his bed!_ \-- and resumed hanging his tunics back in the armoire. He ignored the severe trembling in his fingers, as well as the aching arousal in his shorts. It wasn't like it was anything new. Qui-Gon really needed to get out more often.  
  
"Well," he said, forcing his voice not to tremble, "I appreciate that sentiment, padawan. I truly do. And you really are a help to me, a huge help -- why, I don't think I could do anything around here any more without your, uh, help. You truly are a wonderful padawan. A wonderful and helpful padawan. A really, really ... uh ... um ... Please ... don't do that." Obi-Wan, while Qui-Gon was babbling away, began to lick his fingers. Slowly.  
  
"Do what, Maaastehr?" Obi-Wan asked throatily, once again looking up at Qui-Gon through those lashes.  
  
Oh, Force. Had he said that last bit aloud? "Do ... uh, do you have something ... you should wash your hands if you have ..." Qui-Gon was incapable of taking his eyes off Obi-Wan and his ... fingers.  
  
Lick.  
  
"I spilled some qualla frost when I got home from the laundry, Maaastehr," Obi-Wan said.  
  
Lick.  
  
"I didn't realize some of it was still on my fingers."  
  
Lick.  
  
"It's very good; here, would you like a taste?"  
  
Qui-Gon looked at the long, elegant fingers held out to him, and whimpered. He took one step towards Obi-Wan, then, after a terrible hesitation, another. Obi-Wan smiled.  
  
It was the smile -- a smoky, sultry number that could indicate nothing else but want, lust, desire, need -- well, okay, it could indicate a lot of things, but anyway -- that did it. Qui-Gon suddenly realized that he was being seduced (hey, he wasn't a Jedi master for nothing!) and froze. "Obi-Wan," he said, his voice strangled. "This ... isn't ... a ... very ... good ... idea ..."  
  
"Why, Maaastehr, whatever do you mean?" Obi-Wan purred.  
  
"The Code ..."  
  
"You know, Maaastehr," Obi-Wan said, in a distressingly conversational tone of voice, "the senior padawans have acquired something that's been making the rounds, rather surreptitiously. It's a copy of the Code."  
  
"Really?" Qui-Gon croaked, trying like hell to focus on a spot -- perhaps it was qualla frost -- on Obi-Wan's tunic, just below his neck.  
  
"Um-hmmm ..." Obi-Wan replied. "Did you know that, on the matter of sexual relationships between a master and padawan, the exact wording in the Code is, 'A padawan may not initiate a sexual relationship with his, her or its master'?"  
  
There went the finger, back into the mouth. Lick. This time he added a suck for good measure.  
  
"That's the only thing in there on that subject, Maaastehr. The only thing at all."  
  
Okay, so Qui-Gon's brain wasn't firing on all cylinders. It took him about three and a half seconds to correctly parse that statement, then he frowned. After another three seconds, he narrowed his eyes and stared directly into the smoky blue-green-whatever color of his padawan's eyes.  
  
"Padawan," Qui-Gon said softly.  
  
"Yes, Maaastehr?"  
  
"Where are your pants? For that matter, where are _my_ pants?"  
  
Obi-Wan smiled that impish smile -- full dimple alert! -- that never failed to reduce his master to so much mush. "I do believe they're gracing the top branches of the trees in the garden directly under our balcony, Maaastehr."  
  
"The trees, Padawan?" When Obi-Wan nodded slowly, Qui-Gon added, "And I suppose that you were the one to put them -- or rather, fling them -- there?"  
  
Obi-Wan leaned back onto his elbows and let his knees -- his bare knees -- splay out. "I've been a very bad padawan, Maaastehr," he whispered, smiling in a way that made Qui-Gon's pants -- which were actually the only pants in the apartment at the moment -- exceptionally tight. "A very, very naughty padawan."  
  
Qui-Gon closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then he took another, just for good measure.  
  
So. A _padawan_ may not initiate a sexual relationship with his, her or its master, huh? He spared a very brief moment to wonder if Yoda knew about that loophole in the Code, and then realized it didn't really matter ... he was actually wasting time, here.  
  
He had a naughty padawan to discipline.  
  
Qui-Gon opened his eyes and looked down at his exceedingly naughty padawan. He saw Obi-Wan's eyes widen in something very much like surprise or maybe trepidation -- _damn, I've still got it,_ he thought to himself with some satisfaction -- before Qui-Gon pounced.  
  
Obi-Wan found himself trapped by a good hundred eighty or so pounds of master, who was looking down into his face with a look most feral -- at least he hoped it was most feral. "You have been a naughty padawan, padawan," he growled, and Obi-Wan blinked, then swallowed hard.  
  
But it was licking his lips that did him in.  
  
Qui-Gon locked his own lips on those of his paddlewan -- _padawan_ \-- and took a fast, three-days-only-don't-stop-for-snacks-excitement-every-hour tour of his mouth -- noting the delicious taste, the lovely textures, the lack of air -- and proceeded to suck Obi-Wan's tongue practically out of his head. Obi-Wan didn't seem to mind, as he was doing his best to suck Qui-Gon's out as well, along with locking his legs around Qui-Gon's waist and rubbing those damn silk boxers up against him.  
  
Pulling back slightly, Qui-Gon looked down at the becoming-debauched-but-nowhere-near-what-he-would-be padawan, and growled, "You're overdressed. How am I supposed to properly discipline you when you're wearing tunics?"  
  
"Discipline?" Obi-Wan said -- well, squeaked, actually -- and his legs around Qui-Gon tightened fractionally. "You're just kidding, right, Maaastehr?"  
  
In answer, Qui-Gon pulled back a little more, never taking his eyes from Obi-Wan's. He reached a hand between their bodies and removed his belt, which thunked to the floor. Then he unwound his obi -- the obi around his waist, which actually required unwinding the other Obi around his waist as well -- and let that fall to the floor too. A quick lift of his arms and flick of his wrist, and he had pulled his tunic -- stola and all -- off. He figured it wasn't that often that an aging -- aging gracefully, but still aging -- Jedi master got the opportunity to bed -- not to mention discipline -- a glorious nineteen year old padawan, and Qui-Gon intended on making the most of the time he had.  
  
After taking care of his own, Qui-Gon went to work on Obi-Wan's tunics. Faster than Obi-Wan apparently believed possible, the only barrier between them was a pair of extremely strained green silk boxers and Qui-Gon's Jedi knickers. "Maaastehr," Obi-Wan purred, "you're still wearing your pants."  
  
"And?" Qui-Gon replied in as dangerous a voice as he could manage, given his extreme state of arousal. "I don't believe I need to remove them, at least not all the way, padawan. Not to discipline you properly."  
  
Obi-Wan swallowed again, beginning to look a little disconcerted -- perhaps he hadn't realized how risky it could be to tease a Jedi master. "You don't?"  
  
"No," Qui-Gon growled. "I don't. Now, roll over and drop 'em, padawan."  
  
For some reason, it appeared that Obi-Wan was having trouble breathing. This was not Qui-Gon's problem, however, as he was too busy enjoying the view. As Obi-Wan did as commanded, Qui-Gon reached out with one hand and pulled a three-quarters-empty bottle of almond oil ("Great as a massage aid and emergency lube!" the label read in fine print) from his bedside table. And, as Obi-Wan slid those green silk boxers slowly down over the very fine ass that had been haunting Qui-Gon's dreams for at least several weeks now, Qui-Gon worked the stopper free on the bottle. Finally, as Obi-Wan slowly slid the boxers down his legs, Qui-Gon gave up all pretense of patience and just grabbed them, yanking the silk hard enough so that they ripped right off.  
  
"Hey!" Obi-Wan protested, half turning. "Those were my favorite pair!"  
  
"There is another, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon growled, remembering the pair currently gracing his favorite chair. "On your knees, boy."  
  
"Yes, Maaastehr," Obi-Wan said breathlessly, assuming the position requested.  
  
Pushing two slick fingers into a very hot, tight little hole, Qui-Gon groaned and swallowed. Clearing his throat, he said, "Now, padawan. You've been very naughty."  
  
"Yes, Maaastehr," Obi-Wan agreed, practically hyperventilating. "Oh, very, very naughty, yes."  
  
"You've taken all your pants, and mine as well, and tossed them over the balcony."  
  
"Yes, Maaastehr," Obi-Wan said, almost sobbing as another finger was pushed inside him. "Each and every pair, oh gods."  
  
"And you've teased and tortured your poor old master almost to distraction," Qui-Gon said, hastily splashing some oil on the erection he freed from his pants.  
  
"Yes, Maaastehr," Obi-Wan said, then immediately contradicted himself breathlessly by saying, "Not old, Maaastehr!"  
  
"Thank you, padawan," Qui-Gon said, lining himself up, "but flattery is not going to get you out of your punishment."  
  
Pushing forward, Qui-Gon started easing himself into the tightest heat imaginable. Obi-Wan began to keen, moaning and groaning in ecstatic reaction -- and, well, damn, Qui-Gon thought, this was not intended to be fun for him. Or, maybe it was -- or maybe it was just supposed to be fun for Qui-Gon -- or maybe ...  
  
Whatever. This was _great_ and Qui-Gon couldn't for the life of him figure out why he hadn't fucked his padawan just _years_ ago.  
  
Oh, wait. He would have been underage. That's right. He knew there was a catch _somewhere_.  
  
"Oh, Maaastehrrrrrrr ..." Obi-Wan gasped, his R's rolling a little longer than normal.  
  
Desperately trying to retain his sanity and not send his brains shooting out of his cock, Qui-Gon remembered something important -- this was supposed to be a punishment. Lifting one hand from the grip he had on Obi-Wan's hips, he gasped, "Remember, padawan, this is a punishment." There. That oughta do it. But ... perhaps ...  
  
In an experimental move, Qui-Gon brought the hand he had raised down smartly on the delightful ass presently giving him so much pleasure, and noted the red hand-print that he left behind was quite aesthetically pleasing on the pale skin. Obi-Wan yelped when the hand came down, and jerked away a bit. That was okay; Qui-Gon just pushed a bit further in, letting his eyes roll back in his head. He lifted his hand -- the other hand this time -- and brought that one down, just as firmly. Obi-Wan yelped again, but this time he pushed _back_.  
  
Now there were two matching hand-prints. How delightful. Qui-Gon admired them for a moment before shoving in a little more and adding another print. Then another. And yet still another. Never let it be said that his padawan wasn't artistic, Qui-Gon thought.  
  
The only problem with all this was that Obi-Wan seemed to still be _enjoying_ himself -- well, if the rigid cock Qui-Gon felt pressing up against Obi-Wan's belly was any indication -- and Qui-Gon was left with a quandary ... to spank, or not to spank?  
  
_What the hell,_ he thought to himself, bringing his hand down again, _spanking is defined as punishment. If both parties get off on it, that does nothing to alter the definition._  
  
"And if you stop, I'll kill you," Obi-Wan gasped, and Qui-Gon frowned. He hadn't said that aloud, had he?  
  
Ah, what the hell. There were no such things as bonds or telepathy anyway.  
  
The only problem Qui-Gon could see with thrusting harder into his padawan was that he needed both hands to keep said padawan still, and he had to stop spanking. However, by this time Obi-Wan's ass was a simply lovely rose color, so it really didn't matter. And thrusting harder had a wonderful benefit ... for, with a roar that probably shook the windows in all four towers, Qui-Gon came, followed very quickly by his padawan, who shrieked like a girl and ejaculated all over Qui-Gon's bedspread -- the quilt his mother had made for him.  
  
No matter. It gave up its life for a noble cause.  
  
Qui-Gon fell forward onto his soft, warm padawan and snuggled down deliciously. Eventually, the wiggling and strange noises roused him from his stupor and after a moment, he realized Obi-Wan had fallen face-first into the quilt and was having a difficult time breathing. With a grunt, Qui-Gon shifted enough to allow Obi-Wan to turn his head to the side and take a big breath of air, which turned his face back to normal from a rather charming blue shade.  
  
"I hope you've learned your lesson, padawan," Qui-Gon mumbled sleepily.  
  
"Oh, yes, Master," Obi-Wan replied, sounding equally sated. "Next time, I'll just rip holes in all the socks."  
  
"Good paddlewan," Qui-Gon said approvingly. His padawan was such an inventive, clever boy!  
  
After a few moments of silence, Obi-Wan asked, "So where are we going on our next mission, Master?"  
  
"Hmmm?" Qui-Gon said, pulling his padawan close against him. Maybe he should take off his boots.  
  
"The Council," Obi-Wan prodded, sounding more awake all the time. Damn, Qui-Gon had forgotten what it was like to be nineteen. "Didn't they give us a new mission?"  
  
The Council? Qui-Gon pulled together a few brain cells and realized what Obi-Wan was asking. "Oh! No. They, uh ... well, they gave us a vacation."  
  
"A vacation?" Obi-Wan asked incredulously.  
  
"Yes," Qui-Gon said. "Uh, it seems they think we're working too hard," he added sheepishly.  
  
"Oh, we _are_ , Maaastehr," Obi-Wan said, wiggling his backside -- his still quite warm backside -- against Qui-Gon. "We're working _extremely_ hard."  
  
The situation was deteriorating rapidly, and Qui-Gon sought for a way to take it back under control. "They're sending us to Teetai for a month, padawan," he said, hoping that would distract the eager young man.  
  
"Teetai?" Obi-Wan sounded amazed and thrilled. "That's a water world! Isolated islands, white sand beaches, tropical breezes ..."  
  
Obi-Wan, proving he was a rapid and astute student of everything his master taught him, suddenly flipped and pinned Qui-Gon down, looking down at his surprised master with a sultry expression.  
  
"And just think, Maaastehr," he added in a purr, "We won't need to wear any pants!"


End file.
